


The Hunters Keeper

by BrynMorton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Evangeline - Freeform, F/M, Hurt Dean Winchester, My First Fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 22:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynMorton/pseuds/BrynMorton
Summary: Dean has a rough fight. He heads to an old friends house for help, and stays for some R&R (and maybe something more?). Original character is Evie; emergency room nurse by day, hunters medic by night. Because sometimes even hunters need help.





	The Hunters Keeper

Authors note: this work is an experiment in writing the same story from different points of view. It starts from the POV of Evie, then repeats the same segment from the POV of Dean. Feedback is how we get better, and is always appreciated!

 

(POV of Evangeline)

You look terrible.

I don’t say the words out loud, but he hears them anyways. He has a streak of dirt up one side of his face and a smear of blood running down the other, and there is enough blood on his clothes to make me worried, though with him I’m never sure how much is his. His eyes are dark and tired, and his shoulders sag a bit. I’ve patched him up enough times to know the man can take a beating, but this was something different.

“Hi,” he says, attempting a smile. The result is weak and lopsided, and entirely unconvincing.

“Hi,” I murmur back, and hold the door open to let him in. He lifts his foot to step inside and almost wobbles, but catches himself. He glances up at me through his eyelashes, checking to see if I’ve noticed. Of course I’ve noticed. But he tries so hard to be invincible, so I pretend. When you don’t have much left, pride holds on all the stronger.

He hesitates just inside the door, unsure of where to go. I had learned a long time ago to keep only dark furniture, dark enough to hide the blood stains that were an all too common occurrence in my life. At the moment, though, my all-dark furniture is piled high with boxes, and what isn’t covered in boxes is buried under stacks of books. The dining room isn’t any better, and I refuse to allow filthy, bloody, potentially infected wounds into the same room I use to prepare food, so the kitchen is out. The guest room is under construction (the cause of the boxes and books strewn about), and the guest bath is too small for both of us to fit comfortably. That leaves my bedroom. Not my first choice.

I give him a long, measuring look. There’s the head wound, for starters. Looks like it bled a lot, but then head wounds tend to do that. His pupils are even and appropriate for the shine of firelight through the room, and his mouth doesn’t have the tightness around the corners that usually signals nausea, so concussion is unlikely. The wounds on his torso look like knife wounds mostly, based on the straight-edged tears in his shirt. No fresh blood visible, so they’ve already closed up. Can’t be too bad then. Broken ribs are likely, based on the shallow breaths and the way he’s standing just slightly hunched to one side. He did some real damage to that left shoulder a few years back, but it’s hard to tell if he’s reinjured it or if he has his arm clamped against his side because of the ribs. There is one long, deep slice running down the back of his forearm, half-wrapped in what looks like an old Nirvana tee shirt. That one is gonna scar bad. He limped a bit on the way in, but nothing major- a knee, it looked like. All in all, not the worst I’ve seen him, but bad nonetheless. I sigh quietly and half-heartedly wave my hand in the direction of the hall.

“Last door on the left. Go take a shower. I’ll grab some supplies.” 

I watch him walk towards the bedroom, not quite as steady on his feet as he wants to seem. He’ll be all right for the moment. I roll my shoulders and head to the first aid closet.

 

POV of Dean:

You look beautiful.

No, that’s wrong. It’s such a common word, and she is anything but common. She is energy, intelligence, humor, and light. She is the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins.

I laugh silently at myself. This head wound must be worse than I thought; it’s not like me to wax poetic. But she’s here, and she’s real, and I’m glad of it. Judging by the irritated squint, she’s also worried. If I look half as bad as I feel, she’s right to worry. Fuckin’ hell, I hurt. I give what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“Hi.”

She looks at me skeptically for a minute, then lets me in. Maybe not as reassuring as I’d intended.

“Hi,” she murmurs, her voice husky. God, I’d missed her voice. I lift my foot to step inside, and realize too late I’d chosen the wrong leg, leaving me standing on my wrenched knee. I nearly wobble, but catch myself and step in steadily. I glance up, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Or she’s just being nice. Knowing her, it’s probably the latter.

I look around. There are books everywhere- stacked in boxes, piled on tables, lined up on the fireplace mantle. There have to be hundreds of books, most of them old. Their presence doesn’t surprise me at all, but the clutter does. She usually likes to keep things neat. I turn to look at her, only to find her studying me intensely. Unconsciously, I try to straighten up. Big mistake, I think, hiding a wince. I’m pretty sure I have at least a few broken ribs. The pain spreads across my left side like fire, reaching out further with every inhale, fading slightly as I exhale. Most of the time it just blends together with the rest of the pain, but God help me if I move wrong.

After a long pause, during which I’m pretty sure she sees not only my wounds but straight through to my soul, she waves me down the hall. Apparently she’s decided I’m not going to die, or at least not immediately.

“Last door on the left. Go take a shower. I’ll grab some supplies.”

I head that direction, hoping I look steadier than I feel.


End file.
